


Thorn in his side

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Appendicitis, Helpful Steve, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Very helpful Sam, Vomiting, a tiny bit of war flashbacks, hurting Bucky, only a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 01:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12244719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Steve: What happened? Do I need to come home?Sam: He has a stomach thing. I think he’ll be ok for a while.Steve: How bad is it?Sam: Hard to tell. He feels warm. White knuckled it through the drive home. Now I’m parked in the driveway and I swear I can hear him puking inside.Steve: Oh geez. Does he need me?Sam: I asked if he wanted to call you. I think his exact words were “I think I just need to throw up and I’d rather do that by myself.”_____________________________________________________Bucky either has a stomach bug or something much worse.





	Thorn in his side

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt fill for Tumblr (@Builder051). It was a pretty classic sickfic/appendicitis prompt, but I added just a touch of angst.
> 
> Warnings in the tags.
> 
> We're in powers/no powers. You know the drill.

It’s 2:24pm when Steve’s phone buzzes with a text message. He’s standing in Nat’s cubicle, reading a report over her shoulder, and both of them are too astute to miss the sound of the vibration and the glow coming from his pocket. Steve knows Nat won’t mind, so he pulls out the device and glances down at it. He rarely gets texts during the workday, so he figures it’s probably important.

 

Sam: _I just dropped Bucky off at home. He’s not feeling so hot._

 

“What’s going on? He ok?” Nat swivels her chair around and looks up at Steve with concern. She seems to sense what’s happening without even seeing the message.

 

“Mm. Sam gave him a ride home early…” Steve says. “Excuse me for a minute, I need to respond.”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Nat says. “Go home if you need to.”

 

“Thanks,” Steve says, stepping back toward his own cube. “But as much as you wish you were, Fury’s still the boss.”

 

“In name only,” Nat jokes.

 

Steve stands behind his chair and quickly types a reply.

 

Steve: _What happened? Do I need to come home?_

 

Sam: _He has a stomach thing. I think he’ll be ok for a while._

 

Steve: _How bad is it?_

 

Sam: _Hard to tell. He feels warm. White knuckled it through the drive home. Now I’m parked in the driveway and I swear I can hear him puking inside._

Steve: _Oh geez. Does he need me?_

 

Sam: _I asked if he wanted to call you. I think his exact words were “I think I just need to throw up and I’d rather do that by myself.”_

 

Steve: _Yeah, ok. I’ll still duck out of here a little early if I can._

 

Sam: _It’s probably not anything to worry about. But I still have a med kit. I’m always available if it gets really bad._

 

Steve: _Thanks. Always good to have you looking out for us._

 

Sam: _You bet._

 

Steve jams the phone back into his pocket and re-joins Nat, who is calmly playing solitaire on her computer.

 

“What’s the story?” she asks, clearly not interested in returning their collected attention to the report.

 

“Buck’s sick. Just a stomach bug or something, so hopefully nothing to worry about,” Steve reports.

 

Nat narrows her eyes at him. “But you’re worrying anyway.”

 

Steve shrugs. “A little. I always do. But he’s been doing really well lately, and he wants to take care of himself. It’s a good thing.”

 

“But if you want to check out early,” Nat says slyly, eyeing the printed report, “I’ll totally remember that you were here working with me till five.”

 

“Thanks,” Steve says. “I’ll be good for another hour or two, I think.”

 

***

 

At 4:15, he texts Bucky.

 

Steve: _I’m just about to leave the office. Sam said you’re not feeling fantastic. You doing ok? Want me to pick up anything for you?_

 

Bucky: _Ok_

 

Steve cocks his head, trying to make sense of the message. What question is he answering?

 

Steve: _Anything in particular you want? Gatorade? Crackers?_

 

Bucky: _No_

 

Steve: _Ok. I’m on my way home._

 

It’s hard to tell from a text, but Bucky’s not sounding incredibly coherent. It kicks the worry meter up a notch, but he reminds himself that they’ve dealt with fevers and flus. Everything’s going to be fine.

 

***

 

Steve parks his bike in the garage and hurries into the house.

 

“Buck?” he calls. The house is dim; it’s dusky outside, and there aren’t any lights on.

 

Nearby a toilet flushes, and Steve practically runs down the short hallway to the downstairs bathroom. Bucky’s outline is hunched over the pale porcelain as water swirls down the drain. The bathroom lights are off, and Steve can only imagine how long Bucky’s been there.

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve whispers. He kneels down beside Bucky.   “Would it bug you if I turned on the light?”

 

“Nuh,” Bucky grunts, shaking his head.

 

Steve flips the switch, and the small room illuminates with a fluorescent glow. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and scrubs a shaky hand over his forehead.

 

“Hey, alright,” Steve murmurs. He lays his hand over the back of Bucky’s neck. The fever is prominent. “I bet you’re feeling pretty rough.”

 

Bucky makes a small nod and squints in Steve’s direction.

 

“Have you just been getting sick since you got home?”

 

“Pretty much,” Bucky chokes. His voice is rough from what Steve can only imagine has been constant vomiting. It tears at his heart.

 

“Ok,” Steve sighs, running his hand down Bucky’s back.

 

“I thought I was ok,” Bucky admits in a whisper. “But I, just, everything hurts.” He presses his hand to his mouth over what sounds like a wet hiccup.

 

The fact that Bucky’s mostly articulate is a relief. Steve remembers the mute, trembly mess Bucky’d been the first couple times he’d been ill after he’d come home. The Bucky before him now is no doubt an improvement. But the way he’s staring off into space with glassy eyes. Something’s definitely wrong.

 

Dehydration would be the most obvious culprit.

 

“I’m gonna get you some water, ok?” Steve says.

 

Bucky doesn’t respond, but his spine arches like he’s about to dry heave.

 

Steve hesitates for a second, torn between staying to offer comfort and being able to immediately offer a cooling drink. He pats Bucky’s furnace of a shoulder. “I’ll be right back, ok?”

 

He tears into the kitchen and runs cool tap water into the first clean glass he can find, then runs back to the bathroom, trying not to spill on the carpet.

 

Bucky’s coughing, a line of spit trailing pathetically from his lower lip to the toilet seat.

 

“Alright, here you go.” Steve releases the glass into Bucky’s unsteady hand and rubs his fingers up and down his back. “Clean out your mouth, get some fluids back in you…”

 

Bucky swishes and spits, then obediently takes a tiny sip. He pushes the glass back at Steve, then with great effort, shoves himself back against the wall. He tips his head back, closes his eyes, and snakes his arm around his stomach.

 

“Stomach’s really bugging you?” Steve asks.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes. “But everything hurts,” he repeats.

 

“Aches? Like a fever?” Steve asks.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs again.

 

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable,” Steve suggests, stooping to insert his shoulder under Bucky’s stump arm.

 

“I’m gonna hurl again,” Bucky groans. “Probably.”

 

“We’ll take the trash can,” Steve reassures, snatching it up and continuing to haul Bucky to his feet. “Here, let’s try to make it to the couch.”

 

It’s quite an effort as Bucky’s practically dead weight. Once he’s safely deposited on the sofa, Steve runs upstairs for more provisions. Ibuprofen, a thermometer, and a couple pillows from their bed seem like a good start.

 

After building the start of a nest around Bucky, Steve inserts the thermometer under his tongue. Bucky gags as soon as the glass rod is between his lips, but awkwardly swallows to keep everything in place. As soon as Steve takes the device, Bucky leans forward to heave emptily over the trashcan.

 

“Alright, it’s ok,” Steve intones, watching the few sips of water splash back up. He looks down at the thermometer in hand, and sighs at the reading. “Geez, Buck, you’re almost at 103. No wonder you’re feeling so awful.”

 

Steve dispenses ibuprofen. Bucky doesn’t want to take it. “I can barely swallow,” he complains.

 

“Your throat hurts?” Steve asks.

 

“No, it’s just, it won’t…It’ll come back up,” Bucky says hoarsely.

 

“We need to get your fever down, though. And it might be easier to throw up water than nothing.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

***

 

Steve wins, but Bucky’s right. By 6:30, he’s taken the anti-inflammatories twice and vomited them back up twice, along with another half-glass of water.

 

In the kitchen, Steve unscrews the cap from a bottle of Gatorade he found in the back of the fridge. “This is the only bottle of this we have,” he says, pouring some into a coffee mug and cutting it with water. “So hopefully it’ll make a positive difference and tide you over for a minute while I run out and buy some more.”

 

Bucky makes a skeptical grunting sound, then belches quietly into his palm.

 

“There you go.” Steve offers the new beverage and sits down beside Bucky. He brushes a few strands of long, sweaty hair behind Bucky’s ear and attempts to cool his pink cheek with the back of his hand.

 

Bucky looks at the mug in his hand. “I ran the dishwasher…” he mumbles.

 

“Mm. No,” Steve says. “You probably did a day or two ago, but there’s not a lot clean at the moment.”

 

“I thought I did this morning…”

 

“You went to work this morning. I don’t think you were doing chores,” Steve replies, a hint of concern coming into his soothing tone.

 

“Hm,” Bucky sighs, almost as if acknowledging his own almost-delerium. “I feel like crap.”

 

“Yeah. You got the flu or something,” Steve says. “But it won’t last forever. It’ll be ok.”

 

Bucky shrugs.

 

“You want to take a drink of that?” Steve prompts, internally crossing his fingers that this will be the attempt at fluids that stays down.

 

“Ok.” Bucky raises the mug and takes a swig.

 

“Ok,” Steve echoes.

 

***

At 7:06, Steve has one hand on Bucky’s spasming back and the other flipping frantically through the contacts on his phone. All hopes of running to the grocery store are dashed. He finds the entry for Sam, presses the call button, and tucks the device between his cheek and shoulder so he can get both hands on Bucky. Gatorade-water is hitting the bottom of the trashcan, and Steve wonders it it’ll be audible on the other end of the call.

 

“Yo,” Sam answers.

 

“Hey, Sam,” Steve says, trying to keep the tenseness out of his voice for Bucky’s sake.

 

“How’s he doing?” Sam asks, automatically guessing the reason for the call.

 

“Not so good,” Steve says. “He’d been throwing up for over 2 hours by the time I got home, and we’re still having trouble keeping liquids down.”

 

“That’s been what, four and a half hours total?” Sam quickly calculates. “Yeah, I’d say that’s a problem. I can start him on IV fluids to rehydrate. But I can’t do anything about the nausea, not without a doctor’s prescription.”

 

“Yeah, we’ll take what we can get,” Steve sighs. “If you have sports drinks or anything, that’d be good. We’re out of everything.”

 

“I’ll see what I have. I’ll be over in 20 minutes or so.”

 

“Thanks.” Steve ends the call and gives his full attention to rubbing Bucky’s back.

 

Bucky retches hard, and the shudder that runs up and down his spine leaches into Steve’s palms.

 

“Alright. It’s gonna be over soon. It’s just the flu,” Steve whispers.

 

Bucky breathes raggedly.

 

“Remember how I used to get real sick when we were younger?” Steve presses on. “You were always there helping me out. We’re gonna get you through this. You’re gonna be fine…”

 

***

 

Sam’s letting himself in with the spare key before 7:30. He dumps a plastic shopping bag filled with assorted flavors of Gatorade on the kitchen counter, then bustles into the living room with a duffle bag in hand.

 

Bucky’s somehow managed to drape himself over both the arm of the sofa and Steve’s lap simultaneously, and is loath to move as Sam squats in front of him.

 

“Hey, Bucky,” Sam says softly. Then he looks up at Steve. “I’m just gonna do a little exam before I start the IV,” Sam explains. “If you wanna stretch your legs for a minute or something…”

 

Steve slips out from under Bucky’s arm and decides it’s a good moment to rinse out the foul-smelling trashcan. He just prays Bucky won’t need it again in the next few minutes.

 

“Hey, alright, can you sit up for me?” Steve hears Sam say from the living room before the pounding of water from the kitchen sink drowns everything else out.

 

Once the can is clean, Steve digs out a dishtowel to dry it. He glances across to see Sam gingerly lifting the hem of Bucky’s shirt and palpating his abdomen. He’s making a mental note to pick up a Starbucks gift card for his wonderful ex-PJ of a friend when Bucky’s suddenly yelping and gagging and Steve’s rushing back to the couch, the trashcan forgotten in the sink.

 

Watery bile drips onto Bucky’s chest, and Sam’s fingers hover on the lower right side of his stomach.

 

“Bucky, do you still have your appendix?” Sam asks.

 

“Why?” Bucky chokes out through gritted teeth, “Do you need it?”

 

“Huh?” Sam is taken aback, confused.

 

“You already took my arm…”

 

“What? No,” Sam backtracks.

 

“Aw, geez,” Steve mutters. “It’s, he’s, ah, god. War flashbacks. He’s sleepy or—“

 

“Getting delirious,” Sam supplies. He turns to Steve with a look of utmost seriousness. “Localized pain like that, it’s a good chance it’s his appendix. That explains the fever, the extreme puking… We have to get him to a hospital.”

 

“He’s not gonna like that,” Steve mutters.

 

“He’s already been in pain for a while. We don’t have a lot of time. That thing’s gonna rupture,” Sam says.

 

Bucky starts retching again, and Sam holds his shirttail upwards so the fabric catches the small amount of fluid that comes up.

 

“Oh, god. I kept telling him he’s gonna be fine,” Steve groans, pressing his fingertips into his eye sockets.

 

“He is gonna be fine,” Sam says. “But we have to go. Right now.”

 

Steve wipes Bucky’s mouth with his own fingers. “Ok. You with me, Buck?”

 

Bucky half-nods and moans quietly.

 

“We’re gonna go to the hospital.”

 

***

 

The drive is short because Sam speeds through every yellow light.

 

Steve sits with Bucky in the backseat, holding him to his chest and trying not to let his own heart beat out of his rib cage as Bucky’s breaths slowly become shallower and more pained.

 

“Alright, here we are,” Sam announces, pulling up at the curb in front of the ER.

 

Steve helps Bucky out of the car and pulls his right arm around his own shoulders. “Here we go. I got you.”

 

Bucky leans against the counter as Steve tries to check him in. “It’s his appendix,” Steve says, mentally kicking himself as he says it. He should have known better.   Gotten them here earlier.

 

The disgruntled woman behind the desk pushes a stack of forms at Steve. “No, he needs to be seen now. He’s already been sick for hours—“

 

Bucky jerks forward and heaves over the counter. It would have been more effective if he’d actually had stomach contents to barf all over his paperwork, but it gets him noticed all the same.

 

Bucky’s ushered into a wheelchair, and Steve jogs along at his side while trying to flag down Sam, who’s parked the car and now stands in the lobby looking lost.

 

It only takes a couple minutes with the doctor to confirm what they already know. Nurses transfer Bucky to a gurney to prep him for surgery. They ask questions about Bucky’s medical history, and Sam’s better at answering them.

 

Steve just grips Bucky’s hand and tries to murmur reassurances through the lump in his throat.

 

“Not…gonna take my arm?” Bucky breathes.

 

“No.” Steve squeezes his shoulder. “They’re just gonna make your stomach feel better.”

 

The nurses have started an IV. One has a syringe poised over the line, ready to administer anesthesia.

 

“What’s? No, I don’t want…” Bucky mutters.

 

“You’re just gonna take a nap,” Sam expertly explains, dropping one hand each on Steve’s and Bucky’s arms. “And then you’re gonna feel a lot better when you wake up.”

 

***

 

“God, this is my fault,” Steve mutters, squeezing his Styrofoam coffee cup and nervously kicking the foot of his plastic waiting room chair.

 

“No,” Sam says. “No one’s fault. It’s just how things happen.”

 

“But I should’ve done something sooner. I could’ve come home earlier. Then he wouldn’t have puked in the dark by himself for two hours.”

 

“Well, you can’t change anything now. And it would’ve still come to the same thing in the end,” Sam yawns.

 

“But he might not have been so scared,” Steve whispers.

 

“He’s gonna be fine. He’s got you.”

 

***

 

It’s nearly 11 at night when the doctor comes into the waiting room and finally states, just as Sam said, that Bucky will in fact be fine.

 

“He’s in a recovery room now. You’re welcome to see him. He’ll probably wake up in a few minutes.”

 

It’s all Steve can do not to bound down the hallway. Sam claps him on the shoulder to remind him to open the door quietly.

 

Bucky’s tucked in bed, the IV still in his arm. He looks pale and worn down, but peaceful.

 

As Steve watches, Bucky’s mouth twitches. He stirs, and his eyes open a crack.

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve whispers, feeling his face break into a smile. “How you feeling?”

 

“Gross,” Bucky croaks, his voice thin and dry.

 

“Yeah, I bet,” Steve chuckles. “But you’re gonna be ok.”

 

“Yeah?” Bucky breathes.

 

Steve perches on the edge of the bed and leans down to kiss Bucky’s forehead. “Yeah.”


End file.
